An abundance of Pokeweed, also hummingbird eggs. Tired children telling stories. Apples. Hours without you and then like a comet she lights up my brain. Neon ecstasy in a cold Vermont drizzle.
This field. Wanting light is another form of darkness. Also, don't fall for that old lie about the early patterns of our relationships - it's deeper than that and simpler. Letters matter in that we are all fools. A bell transferred from New Hampshire to Vermont and no longer rung.
Photographs of the blizzard of 1888 are oddly familiar. Perhaps it is time to let Emerson's essays go. In the morning I call to the moon and stars and while they don't respond it is easy to pretend they do. Damselflies whisper out over the misty river. Miles between us and no clear way home.
I am mapless, yes, but not lost. Her letters grew dark in the clutch of the old mailbox around which Morning Glories were strung. Wisconsin robins abound! We sail across the miraculous plenitude, driven by the filament sails of memory. You flower petal, you pine cone, you harmonious epoch of wind.
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